


Demons

by fuckingsherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drugs, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 18:43:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckingsherlock/pseuds/fuckingsherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes had friends.</p>
<p>Said friends were not necessarily accepted nor discussed in everyday lifestyles, but John was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Demons

Soft hisses of warning as first droplets begin to plummet down, down, down.

Something drops onto his foot. _(Odd. John fixed the roof last week.)_ He holds his violin because the violin only serves to conjure monsters he cannot express words as he is begged to open up when he cannot whisper when his throat is tight and his eyes are stinging-

The storm comes as an attack, the storm comes with an attack. Both the streets and man beg for a relief from the incoherent cries of plummeting rockets.  
It was freezing, he wore only a shirt _(Inside out)_ ; he didn't care.

There was coffee in the kitchen, John had just gotten up and made some. _(Where is he?) (Showering.) (Muted sound of heater humming.) (Obvious.) (You're slow today.)_

It's been a while.

Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes had friends.

Said friends were not necessarily accepted nor discussed in everyday lifestyles, but John was.

Sherlock Holmes stuck with his friends for three years. _(Was it three?) (Can't remember) (Why can't I remember?) (Focus **Focus**.)_

His friends were kind, sweet, indulgences to those cold winter nights where the rocket engines failed to complete what task the engineers designed the rocket to do. It plummets back down to Earth at a drastic, panicked pace, shaking his thoughts out of its whirring, buzzing mind with its usual: unexpected, unwelcome return, relief; that mankind will not destroy another planet.

He didn't care much for the planets: the destination. _(Dull. Predictable.)_  
He was engrossed in the process, the procedures, the journey.

His friends were criminals, unwanted criminals. Astonishing, really, as they we're kind enough to relieve himself of his demons inside.

His friends built a defense around Sherlock Holmes's heart. Filling his throbbing, sleep deprived, bloodshot eyes with decorative glassy coatings. Filling the hole in his whole self. Filling his forearms with speckled freckles that bled with the malfunction built in his mind (the demons inside) are not normal. _(Tell me- Are they?)_

His friends ceased to help one day, refusing to work with his hidden kingdom of brilliance beneath the hundred, thousand layers of anger, frustration, pent up neglect. _(Unimportant.) (Delete.)_

Words snapped at him as he wanted to snap himself out of the fantasy that his friends would always be there for him. Words pierced through his defenses as he wanted desperately to pierce through his paper-thin ivory flesh.

His friends were locked up, imprisoned by a certain Government official that stuck his nose in areas he knew he would regret sniffing into, but remained indisputable that he would be able to, and he would, resolve the issue. _(Thank you, Mycroft.) (I hate you.) (Thank you. Thank you.)_

His words struck to the core of his half conscious, opaque depression.

He turned to mind-numbing obvious homicide cases to get his thoughts off the more disturbing thought that he was capable of committing homicide on himself whether it was voluntary or not. _(Surely homicide never is voluntary?)_

Of course he wouldn't commit suicide. If he did, it would've been described by his rotting, colourless corpse as a 'miscalculation'. One too many games with his friends, too deep of a pit carved in the wrong area of his skin; accidentally colliding and triggering a bomb to explode expensive, rich red wine to pour out of his ivory skin creating a remarkably beautiful composition that he would admire for the few minutes he had left inhaling oxygen in his weakening lungs expanding his ribs over and over and over and gone.

He didn't.

He didn't commit homicide or accidentally commit suicide just because he was a rocket the engineers had trouble designing, had trouble keeping in the air, had trouble keeping away from the Earth.

He didn't commit suicide because that blessed, smug bastard stuck his nose in and sniffed the air and smelled the repulsive, vile, iron scent, smelled his depression from hundreds and thousands and millions of lies away and whispered to him and cooed to him and prayed to him;

_"You are loved."_

( _Thank you._ ) ( _Oh God. Thank you._ )

And his gritted teeth would release a hiss of relief with a warning as tears threatened and spilled down his cheeks plummeting down and down and down.

Something drops on his foot, returning him to the present.

The storm has passed, leaving him with a silent flat, leaving him with the unknown certainty that John knew everything.

He glances down and sees the droplets on his foot. For a second; they are crimson.

They are not.

His trembling, brave, graduating self from the class of 'We made it' causes the clear droplets to roll down his uneven toes.

He can smell shampoo from the tip of his nose and smell John John John and John is there barely touching his lips to the top of his own dirty, sweat matted curls and he whispers.

_**"You are loved."** _

And Sherlock looks up at the ceiling, and the roof is fixed.

**Author's Note:**

> Someone requested to 'how Sherlock deals with his past abuse and depression out of the bedroom'. I hope this satisfies you!
> 
> The quote 'Graduating self from the class of 'We made it'' is inspired by Shane Koyczan's 'To this day.'
> 
> Comments keep me inspired to write!  
> M


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